


barricade boy

by voksen



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Inanimate Object Porn, Kink Meme, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 08:05:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voksen/pseuds/voksen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is more porn and less crack. There is not even one "Enjolras gets wood" joke. I am also very sorry.</p><p>Prompt:<br/>"enjolras has sex with the barricade. i am so sorry for this."</p>
            </blockquote>





	barricade boy

It is a wreck.

It is a beauty; here in the street outside the Musain, a sculpture to stand peerless against the finest carved by ancient hands. His thick and thorny tangle of shattered wood, tumbled hopelessly, inseparably together by the united hands of his _amis_ and the common folk of the street. His barricade.

It is liberty and rebellion and country given form, and as Enjolras strides the length of it, checking for fallen scraps and replacing them where he finds them, his heart quickens with every step. In this small moment he is alone with it; the others have busied themselves with other tasks, with arranging weaponry and distributing cartridges and with scouting out the guard, and he is grateful for it. One final breath of peace before the coming war - and while it is a battle he has been encouraging for years, this final instant of solitude, too, is beautiful.

The smell of distant rain is in the air as well; another storm will come before the night is through, the thunder of the heavens matched against the thunder of guns. He looks up at the sky: the clouds are thick already, blotting out moon and stars, and hidden behind the roofs of Paris, he sees a tiny flicker of lightning. He thinks unbidden of his barricade drenched in rainwater and still standing tall and spiked against the sky and the Guard, lit by lightning instead of torch; of Nature herself joining the song of the revolution, and smiles fiercely. 

It is this anticipation that fires his blood and brings heat to his cheeks, nothing more. He turns at the wall, walks back the other direction as if playing sentry, touching _here_ the broken leg of a chair that had once stood in the cafe, that he had sat on while planning out this very night and _there_ the soft curve of tattered upholstery thrown from an upstairs window. Enjolras cannot ever remember his fingertips being so sensitive; cannot remember being able to feel each dip in the grain of wood and every twist of thread as he does now. Whether it is some strange and wonderful property of the barricade itself or simply that in this last moment of clarity everything is laid open and exposed - it is a mystery that he is content to leave.

Now that he has started touching, he cannot stop; they have carved steps of a sort into the middle so that they can climb up and over if it becomes necessary, and he bounds up them with great leaping steps. Someone has tied two splintered and unrecognizable bits of wood together with thick ship's sisal and he grips it, testing its strength; the fibers are rough against his skin, biting into his flesh, holding fast no matter how hard he pulls. His lips have gone strangely dry and when he wets them with his tongue as he would lick the tip of a pencil, an odd shiver takes him.

There is an unfamiliar hot feeling curling in the pit of his stomach like a snake preparing to strike, something dangerous and unknowable. Enjolras lets go of the rope and glances down at his hands when he realizes they still sting: it has marked him - his barricade has marked him - there are harsh red stripes bright across the meat of his palm and the joints of his fingers. The sight steals his breath, all the air vanishing from his world, and it is only now that he realizes that he is hard, the ache in his hands echoing through his body and into his cock. It is _desire_ , this thing inside him.

His first brief thought is as ever that he has no time for this - but he has never felt it like this before. It had always been a question of academics, easily pushed back and discarded in the face of more important work - but here, confronted by the embodiment of his calling, the face of liberty, the body of rebellion, here it will not be denied. It is in him like a spark in dry grass, spreading in an instant like their song had swept the crowd, filling every part of him with a need so foreign, so powerful that it almost knocks him from his feet.

Reaching out, he catches himself with one hand on the somehow-whole leg of a table that juts out from the barricade; he is _dizzy_ with the force of it and his mouth is dry again; again, he licks his lips. This time it does not help. He is burning up from the inside, like he has swallowed coals, and instinctively he presses his free hand to his stomach, his muscles taut, his breath racing. 

His fingers stray downwards as if drawn by an irresistible force until they stutter over the head of his cock where it presses upwards, trapped between his hip and the thick smooth cloth of his trousers. The knuckles of his other hand are white and bloodless: if he lets go of the barricade, he cannot say what will happen. But - no, he will not let this rule him, and slowly, one finger at a time, he forces his hand to open until it lies flat on the wood, trembling as his body is trembling. His breathing is too loud, too ragged; his heart thumping so fast, so loud that surely someone will hear it - no. He grits his teeth and stares down into the shadowy, tangled depths of the barricade, trying to compose himself; the sight only makes his cock twitch, forcing itself against his hand.

It is too much, too hot, too new. Too beautiful. Enjolras falls to his knees in the midst of the barricade, his hand sliding down along the leg of the table, along the once-carved, chipped side and to the matted motley floor, bracing himself there instead. His fingers sink into the unexpected softness of an ancient pillow tangled into the mesh of wood and rope and he chokes on a grunt, his breath hissing between clenched teeth. 

His mind is as twisted and tumbled as the platform he kneels on: he thinks desperately of Paris, of country and freedom and the people and revolution and they are all only words, ink melting in thick streaks on a page that is smoldering to ashes. There is Enjolras; there is the barricade. These are the only things that are solid; these are only things that are real.

Enjolras digs his fingers deep into the pillow, twisting the worn fabric between his oversensitive fingers, and pulls it free with a sharp jerk. Once it had been red; now it is an indistinguishable dull color, its edge torn and bits of gray goose down fluttering free. He does not know what he means to do until he has already done it: with unsteady hands, he presses it between his legs. His hips jerk forwards at the contact, driving his still-clothed cock against this bit of softness drawn from the heart of splintered wood.

Once it is begun he cannot stop; he thrusts again and again, his head bowed, back arched, racing towards some strange and perfect spark that hangs just in front of him, just out of reach. And then it is on him like a breaking wave, a release so complete and sudden and whole that he feels like he will shatter beneath the force as surely as if he had been dashed to the stones. 

His nails have torn through the thin fabric of the pillowcase in half a dozen spots by the time he regains himself. He is full of a floating, euphoric calm, as if the fire has left a consuming joy in its place; no shame, only a sense of completion, of _rightness_. 

Taking a shaky breath, he raises his head, looks around. By some miracle he is still alone - no more than a few minutes have passed. The world is utterly altered and yet in every way the same. He could puzzle at it for hours - but he does not have hours; it is surprising that he has had so long.

Quickly, he cleans himself as best he can with what is left of the pillow and lets it fall back into the heart of the barricade, then straightens his clothes. _This_ is a kind of devotion to Patria that he does not feel quite up to explaining to the others.

**Author's Note:**

> > thank you victor hugo for being all YES HE'S A VIRGIN every 5 pages so that I can make him get it on with a chair  
> > hahaha please put that in your author's note  
> > haha ok


End file.
